The Fine Art of Solitude
by HDorothy
Summary: Futuristic: During a rare reflective moment Jack concludes that solitude is well, highly overrated and, he still wants a dog.


Title: The Fine Art of Solitude  
Author: HailDorothy  
Category: romance, general, humor  
Content Level: Teen  
Season: After S10  
Pairing: S&J  
Summary: Jack concludes that solitude is highly over-rated.  
Status: Complete

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without author's consent. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2007.

Regarding Feedback: Feed me, Seymour—pretty please?

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Jack O'Neill has long concluded the art of solitude is well, a fine art. Not that he's an art connoisseur. Although, he fancies Leo de Vinci, he so doesn't get Picasso's abstract period as it were. Quite honestly, he doesn't give a rat's butt about bold brush strokes or the gist of Whistler's homely mother poised in a rocking chair. Oh, yeah, um, back to that whole solitude thingy.

Years ago, if someone asked his definition of solitude, he'd have answered, "My cabin's pond, a fishing pole and an ice-cold brewskie — alone."

He now knows that sort of solitude is highly overrated, but he was a different man back then, a lonely man. Besides, the odds of coming here alone are slim-to-none and that's well, just sweet. He no longer wants to go solo and the initial idea gives him a gut ache. Take today for instance. It's a grand Memorial Day. The sun shining, a gentle zephyr rustles the evergreens and keeps the temperature moderately warm. A few hot days and the pond will be pleasant for skinny dipping. Meanwhile, he's donned his faded, yellow Simpson for President t-shirt, paint-stained cargo shorts and he's yet to shave. Nice.

Even better, he's on his wood-planked pier, seated low in his lawn chair, bare legs soaking up the UV rays and sandaled feet propped on the fishing lure box. He's donned his darkest shades and his green baseball cap is tugged low over his brow. Cold beer has been replaced by bottled water and sparkling fruit juice and all things considered, that's cool. He's tempted to open the ice box and retrieve a drink but doesn't want to interrupt the momentary bliss of blessed silence and however overrated—sweet solitude.

Meanwhile, a fishing pole occupies his left hand and another pole his right. One problem, the right pole keeps dipping and swaying, despite there's not a fish on the worm-baited hook and at this rate never will be.

"Daddy, fish!" The five-year-old squawks, tugging the fishing rod out of his hand. Crap, another ten seconds and she'd have made it an entire minute.

"No fish, Gracie." He sniffs with the parental patience he learned with Charlie. "Ya gotta hold the fishing pole still." He smiles at his daughter who's drowning in her swamp green, Shrek and Princess Fiona life preserver, matching shorts, top and flip-flops. She doesn't leave home without them. He grins as she rubs a delicate finger across her sunscreen-dosed freckled nose that reminds him of Carter's. Blessed with Sam's fair complexion and grayish-blue eyes, Grace O'Neill has bouncing reddish brown curls, Jack's mouth, dimples and an independent streak that makes Sam proud and exasperates the long-suffering father in him.

"My pole!" Her pudgy hands tug the rod from his grip—again. She leans forward from her lawn chair and prods, "'ere fishy fish," loudly.

"Gracie, if you want to catch the fish you need to be quiet." He presses his fingers to his lips and whispers, "Shush."

"Who says?" she squints baby blues into the midday sun and a delicate indent appears between her brows. Grace's smile reveals a space between her bottom teeth, the result of a tussle with two seven-year-old boys, who lost more than a tooth. That's his girl!

"Says whom," he corrects her gently.

Irritated, her mouth flat-lines, she inhales and then blows out of her pouting mouth. Okay, so that attitude belongs to him. "Um, I miss Unk'l Danny, T and their kids." She pats his tanned thigh for effect. "When they comin'?"

"Not 'til tomorrow." Thank you, God. He glances at his watch. "Ya know your uncle Daniel doesn't know what quiet means either." Jack casts his line for the umpteenth time, pondering how no one can change topic or yap as much as his daughter. Yep, she even out talks Daniel.

"Daddy?"

"Um, what, kiddo?" He peers over his shades at her.

"Do I talk too much?" She looks him dead-on serious.

Do'h! Jack opens his mouth than snaps it shut. "Er, um, nope. You talk just enough for your old man." His grimace curls into a smirk. Like mother like daughter, he muses, including the mind reading. He tries to forget that she's a five-year-old with an IQ of 195. And he's doing his best to keep her five as long as possible.

"Cool." She sets down her pole and fetches a fruit juice from the cooler and hands it over. Jack rests his fishing pole on the pier, knowing that's an open invitation she won't pass up. Sure enough Grace squirms up onto his lap, removes his sunglasses, yanks off his ball cap, and ruffles his silver hair and wraps her short arms around his neck. "I luv you, Daddy," she states with a emotional pureness that gives him goose bumps.

"And I love you." He kisses her soft cheek and they cuddle just like they have so many times since her birth. Feeling her chubby soft form warm him, conjures fond memories of Charlie. Jack realizes it's been five years since he's shed a tear over the loss of his son. Doc MacKenzie would say time heals all wounds. Jack would say balderdash! Grieving has nothing to do with time and everything to do with the people who love and support you during that agonizing process. It'd taken one Samantha Carter to come alongside him for Jack to finally see that he isn't a bad person and most of all, a bad parent. And then along came Grace O'Neill. Enough said.

Despite their similarities Gracie's not Charlie. She's her own person and most importantly she's the creation of his and Sam's love that he'll never take for granted. It took more than a dozen years of being without family for Jack to realize he never wants to know that cold dark void again.

Gracie breaks his musing and plants a sloppy smooch against his leathered cheek. "Hee . . . That tickles, Daddy." She nuzzles his whiskered jaw.

"Wanna a bristly bear rub?" He tickles her tummy.

"Na . . . .ah." She giggles and bats him playfully. "I wanna drink." Her gaze rests on the cold can he holds.

"Fine." He pops the lid tab and after his daughter has chugged down her share, lifts the fizzing can to his mouth.

"You're not old, Daddy, you're just nice. When I grow up will ya marry me?"

"Wha—!" Jack inhales juice and it shoots up his nose and out. Grace pushes up on her knees, kneeing him in her effort to slam her small fists against his upper shoulders.

"Crap!" he gasps, sputters, coughs and backhands his wet face and watery eyes, then promptly removes her bony knee from his groin. Thankfully, this was less than painful than when she'd batted the softball into his testicles yesterday. When he looks down, she's giggling--again. At least, she didn't perform the Heimlich maneuver on him. Give her time, Jack. He sports a weak smile, digs out a handkerchief and blows his leaking nose.

"You're funny, Daddy. Is that whatcha said when Mummy asked you to marry her?"

"Huh?" He scrunches his face in confusion.

"Crap?" She makes Sam's turtledove chin tuck.

"Hey, it's impolite to say the C word." He glances around to make sure Sam hasn't heard. He doesn't need his ears batted—again.

"Ya say that when Mom's not 'ere, but I won't tellon ya." She sounds more Minnesotan than he ever did, turns in his lap and winks. Frustrated, he sets down the can of fruit juice and his hands direct traffic as he defends, "For the record, yer mom didn't ask me to marry her, I asked her."

"That's not what she said." Grace swipes her small palms over his shirt as if to dry the wet spots. "Mummy says she got tired of waiting for you to ask and bought your wedding ring—" She toys with the platinum band on his left hand.

"No matter, I still beat 'er to the punch."

"You punched Mommy?" Gracie's mouth dropped open with a shocked look.

"No, Gracie, that's just a saying, although, she bite me once." He hopes Grace doesn't ask if he'd ever shot her mom. He so doesn't want to go there.

"But ya didn't mind, 'coz you loved her, right?"

"Yeah sure yabetcha. I loved her even then." Heck, he's loved Samantha since the first time she sashayed into the SGC conference room in her hot dress blues with an attitude that said, "Bite me, Colonel!"

Now he hugs their precious first born and glances out at the pond just as the elusive Mr. Big Bass as Gracie named him, leaps clear of the water. One of these days . . .

"Does Aunt Vala and Ishta got more babies in their ovens?"

"Looks that way." He reflects on how the women in their extended family got pregnant at the same time, each of them due days a part. And how after several beers Teal'c, Daniel, and Jack exchanged prideful Rooster crows.

"Next time you and mummy make a baby can it be a girl like me?"

"Well, I don't know. I mean, we can't predict what God gives us."

"Well, I told God I want sisters, not more brothers. And I'm gonna be pissed if we get another Jake. He's a brat."

"Listen to who's talking. And, young lady, I don't want to hear the P word again, or you'll get yer mouth washed out with soap," he lectures in his Yupper CO voice.

"K. But does mummy wash yer mouth with soap when ya use the C and P words?"

Jack flinchs. Okay, O'Neill, time for plan B. "So, Gracie, how's about we get back to catching Mr. Big Bass?"

"No. Play with me!" She tugs his arm toward the yard.

"Ya've gotta be kidding. We've played Hide and Seek, arm-wrestled, pitched baseballs, and had a water balloon fight." That he lost. "Yer ol' man's all tuckered-out."

"Not that kind of playing," she says in her Carter tone.

"Ah," he gulps. He doesn't like where this is headed.

"Let's make my fishing rod work better." She leaps off his lap and lifts her shorter pole to inspect like Sam would one of her gadgets. Nope, he doesn't like the familiar sparkle lightening up her blue orbs. Dang, not again!

"Hey I just bought you this, kiddo." Is he whining? Yep. "That pole's brand new and very expensive," he emphasizes making quote marks in the air.

"But I wanna have one that's larger, longer, and strong enough to catch Mr. Big Bass. If we connect a power source to the reel . . ." She suggests seriously.

Double crap! "Power source," he mouths with a wince.

"Look, Daddy, I'll draw you a picture."

Jack shut his eyes to count to ten or is it a hundred? Sniffing, he peels open one lid and has a flashback to a young, shapely blonde bent over a Lego-like Replicator bit at her desk. Sam had been so involved she'd not noticed him until he picked up her magnifying glass and peered through it asking, "Whatcha doing?"

Lifting her head she'd encountered his distorted grin and softly giggled in a way that made his heart flip over and for him to go brain dead. Not surprisingly, his daughter's enthusiasm triggers the same response. He loves his girls!

"And, and I--I need a really, really big rod tae catch 'm, right!" Excited, she pulls out her colored chalk stick to draw on the pier. "Holy Hannah, Daddy, that ol' bass is sooo big." She stretches her small arms.

Yep, inherent O'Neill gestures and dimples alright, but. . . "Ya sound like yer mother." He rolls his eyes as his mind dives into the gutter because he's not thinking about fishing poles.

"Excuse me!"

Jack cranks his neck and glances over his right shoulder while Sam waddles toward them, her hands hovering in maternal fashion over her protruding belly. Fraternal twins, one of each sex. Seven months down, two to go.

"Do'h! That's not what I meant." He begs off.

"Whatever." She frowns and shakes her pretty head. At her approach, he notes that her white, ankle-length sun dress is stained with smudges and infant hand prints. He wonders if it's jam or Jell-O. It makes him smile, but she's not—smiling.

"Give me a break, Samantha. I meant she's got your brains for building doohickeys and blowing up suns." He clears his throat and sheepishly looks at the swaying treetops.

"Ya think." She knows him too well and he likes that. Since taking maternity leave from the SGC, Brigadier General Samantha O'Neill's grown out her natural blonde hair that falls softly past her shoulders. She's always been beautiful, but pregnancy makes her glow in a manner that most often leaves Jack tongue-tied. He still can't comprehend what this hot woman sees in a cynical, cranky, over-the-hill flyboy with arthritic knees and a bad back. Whenever he asks, she kisses him stupid and they make love until he can't walk straight.

_Afterward, she nestles in his arms and clarifies, "Jack, besides the fact, I loved you the first moment we met, I love you because you're the only man who never lets me wins at chess, poker, or arm-wrestling."_

_"Um, Sam, that's because strategically I'm a better chess and poker player and I'm stronger than you are," he answers with male bravado. He also expects to get pinched or slugged. She does neither._

_"Exactly." His beautiful wife yawns, closes her blue eyes and falls asleep in his arms. Women! He'll never understand them and hopes he never does._

"Mummy, we still haven't caught Mr. Big Bass." Grace tugs her mother's wrist and points toward the pond. "But I've an idea."

Jack watches his wife's blue eyes brighten. Oh, here we go again! He scrubs his hands over his face, into his hair and growls frustration. His habitual response is all bluster and show, but they play along.

"That's okay, Gracie." Sam ruffles her daughter's curls and gives her a long hug. "Even if your bigger better fishing rod did catch Mr. Big Bass your dad'd just toss it back in the pond, again."

"Not." Jack snorts, dropping his feet off the lure box.

"Would."

"Not!" Dismissing their daughter's amusement, a brown glare challenges a blue one, until Jack's turns into a lustful leer that makes Sam crackup and hold her tummy.

"Don't even think it, Jack! Last time you looked at me that way, this happened." She pats her watermelon wide belly that he finds downright sexy. So much so, he shifts in the chair to adjust himself. Sam spots his discreet action, leans in and kisses him soundly, including a little tongue tango. With one hand he cradles her double chin and enjoys the sweetness of their intimate kiss while her talented hands track across his damp shirt toward his sidearm.

"Careful," he smiles against her tasty lips, "Curious child on board." His right hand sneaks a quick grope of her firm breasts, before Sam straightens and he delivers a crestfallen expression and sigh.

"Later," she promises with a seductive waggle of her brows.

"Excellent." He plants a kiss against her tummy. "Hi, kids," he says to his unborn twins and gets a firm kick in response. "Tough audience," he smirks and then glances down at her swollen ankles. "Hey, you're supposed tae stay off those poor dogs."

"Bored." She inches herself into her chair that she scoots between his and Grace's.

"Where's Jake?"

"Still napping," she says in her 'Thank God' tone. Sam turns her chair and props her swollen feet onto his knobby knees. He doesn't miss a beat and gently massages her sore feet, and she sighs out contentment for his ministrations.

"Um, Samantha, maybe I should . . . ," He eagerly glances toward the cabin, but she delivers her no way in Ne'tu look. Ever since her promotion to General their occasional spars of wits or is it wills intensifies but rarely on the home front. At the Pentagon and SGC, Jack remains the 'man' while domestically; he's learned from far wiser men, that if he wants to be happy, he keeps his wife happy. Oddly, just like solitude, marriage is a fine art.

"Ah, okay, fine, whatever." He continues rubbing, but inwardly scheming.

Meanwhile Grace O'Neill tinkers with the rod and reel and Jack tries his best to ignore the dismemberment of another expensive investment from the O'Neill household. Last time it was his riding lawnmower, which is now more fuel efficient. Still, unless for the sole purpose to defend Earth, he's yet to comprehend his wife and daughter's need to build a better mousetrap. Plus, where's the joy in the simple art of fishing with a handmade bamboo rod and reel? Grace's gung-ho attitude reminds him of the time Maybourne tossed C4 into that alien lake to catch a fricking fish. That's just wrong on so many levels.

Totally focused on her newest mission, Grace Carter-O'Neill sits cross-legged on the pier with the dismembered fishing rod. Jack wonders if he has the receipt, another five minutes and it won't matter.

"Hey, Daddy, I need a phone battery, number two copper wire, pliers, a soldering gun an—"

"Excuse me?" he bellows. Sam doesn't flinch and directs a chastising glint at their daughter. Thankfully, when it comes to childrearing they're on the same page.

"Whoops. Sorry. Please, Daddy, can I have—"

"O'fer cryin'outloud!"

Sam smirks.

"No giggling." He warns, tosses Grace his cell-phone, sets Sam's plump feet on the dock, then stands and limps off toward their cabin, grumbling, "Some things never change."

"Mommy," Grace chews her lower lip and glances worriedly at her father's swift retreat, "Is Daddy mad at me?"

"No, Gracie, he's not mad, just um, he confuses easily." She maneuvers out of her chair and settles beside their daughter, "especially with three geniuses in the family."

"So, Jake's a genius too?"

"Well, he's a little young for us to determine that yet." Sam picks up the reel and spins it. She's already deduced that Grace is on the right track of how to efficiently juice up the fishing rod.

"Then who's the other smart person?" her daughter asks.

"Your father's a genius strategist, Gracie, he always knows when to fallback and retreat."

"Oh," She scrunches her cute freckled face just like Jack. "I thought it's coz we drive him nuts and wacko." She giggles.

"Um, that too." Sam glances back and admires Jack's retreating slim, six-foot-two physique. Her heart flutters just like all those missions through the Stargate when she'd purposely walked behind him. _'Sixty-something or not, he's got one fine, tight ass and it's mine!' _

Twenty minutes later:

"Jack?" Sam wanders through the cabin with Gracie in tow. She finds that the requested items made it as far as the kitchen's work center. A moment later, she pokes her head into their bedroom, smiles at the adorably scene and quietly shuts the door.

"Are daddy and Jake okay?" Grace asks staring at the closed door.

"Yep." Sam collects the objects to build their daughter a fishing pole to catch Mr. Big Bass and then escorts Grace outside. What the five-year-old doesn't know is that their project won't involve destroying the fishing pole Jack lovingly bought her.

Back inside their bedroom Jack swipes the fresh wet spot from his shirt. Teething, eighteen-month-old Jacob O'Neill has drooled down Jack's neck—again and is cooing. Jack cuddles his child who's stretched across his chest. Jacob Carter's namesake has a strong grip on his right thumb and isn't about to let go. Jack cranks open an eyelid as the door closes granting him and their son a respite. He loves that woman!

His restless thoughts wander. All of those times he and SG-1 almost died to save Earth or defeated the bad guys aren't lost on him. He thanks The Keeper of the Stars for the good and bad and wouldn't change a thing. Like it or not, every bittersweet choice and event happened in order for him and Sam to be where they are now; insanely in love and ecstatically happy.

Life's good.

With the bedroom window ajar, a breeze stirs the white lace curtains. Crickets chirp. Robins sing. Jack can hear his wife and daughter happily tinkering with their gadgets and doohickeys while Jacob starts his fitful wakeup ritual.

Jack sighs and hopes Sam took the steaks and burgers out of the freezer . . . wonders if she knows he put money down on that six-week-old Springer Spaniel at their neighbor's farm yesterday—probably. Not surprising now days, his most pressing issue is whether or not to buy a dog. Heck, tomorrow he'll fetch the pup and suffer the consequences later. A smirk curls his lips. Oh, yeah, making up with Samantha is just so dang exciting.

Utter contentment sluices over his weary bones and Jack drifts asleep. The CO in him knows there's less then a five minute window before his squirming son demands a diaper change and bottle. But for now, Jack will do what he's always done best. He'll feign stupidity and indulge in the highly overrated but, fine art of solitude.

Sweet!


End file.
